


Russian Roulette

by abbichicken



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, Consensual Violence, Cutting, Disturbing Themes, Established Relationship, Introspection, Knifeplay, M/M, One Shot, Post-Movie(s), Risk Aware Consensual Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-XMFC, Charles has taken to visiting Erik, to play a quiet, secret, dangerous game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Russian Roulette

Erik doesn't know when to stop.

It's not yet.

 _Erik, stop._

"If it's too much for you, then make me stop."

 _No...no, you know I won't do that._

Even Charles' voice in Erik's head is weak. Charles can't speak; the air is so heavy with the stench of his own blood that he thinks it's only the clench of his teeth keeping him from vomiting, a step too far, even for this torturous scenario.

 _No, you have to choose to. You decide, Erik, how far this goes. You're in control. That's how it works. That's how this always works._

Thus far, Erik has stopped before Charles so much as slipped into unconsciousness. He has healed him, in his own way, touch and skill, has bound his cuts, fixed him up, on occasion, even only to prolong the agony. Still, he's always let him go before Charles stopped being able to look Erik in the eye.

At times, Charles suspects that it's only the eye contact that keeps him alive.

The sight of Erik's expression, of Erik's well-held concentration and salivating fascination with Charles' bleeding and naked body, and the memories that Charles carries with him of the danger, the balance upon knife's edge, it adds weight to the chance that he will, one day, either win, or lose this terrible game. Either way, the result would be the same: it's his outlook on what that result means that changes.

Russian Roulette. There are, Charles is certain, finite spaces in the chamber of occasion. That Erik can control the bullet, doesn't mean he won't one day fire it. He may not even mean to. On the other hand, he might.

Charles pretends that this is a thousand years ago, that this is medieval science at its best. Bloodletting, the destiny of every man with any ailment. Charles knows this won't change his physical state, any more than wishing, but that doesn't mean it is without its positive effects. Clears the mind, he tells himself. Focuses him on what's important - the beat of his own heart. _The beat of Erik's heart, transposed through the blade into a quiver only he understands, because he's seen everything wrapped around it._ Keeps him...lean, and awake. Conscious. Until now, at least.

There is little to sustain him at home, these days. Life is tiring, and constant.

These hours, these few, irregularly spent hours, are what enable him to survive the day-to-day, to maintain the setup he's somehow held onto, to pay attention to those that chose, for reasons he doesn't care to understand, to take his side.

This shouldn't be about sides. It isn't, for Charles. Not for now. He is so lost inside his own mind, so unsure of where he's going, now that everything has changed, that it's more exhausting than anything he's ever experienced.

When this started, it was tenuous, secret, after dark, sneaking like teenagers, full of uncharacteristic shame and unspoken confusion on both parts, virtually silent, a strange exposition of leading each other on, goading each other, anticipating and pushing and playing a game, the rules of which they made up as they went along.

The scalpel is beautifully formed, single-piece smooth, sleek stainless steel, sharper than any common or kitchen knife. Erik made it himself, of course, molecule-thin at the finish for the perfectly decisive incision. It is all blade; double-sided, an elegant perpetual razorblade, for no-one needs to hold it but Erik.

Sometimes Charles pretends that if he lets Erik take out the rage, the anger, the violence he feels towards the parts of society that still refuse to accept him, and all of their kind, sometimes he tells himself that if he could only bleed enough for all of the humans, then Erik might, in some way, be sated, and calm, and they could resume something a little more normal, a little less wrapped in guilt and quiet, continuous bleeding.

Increasingly, Charles doesn't care enough to make an excuse for this, for himself, for their...whatever they have, now.

Charles' blood is utterly perfect. Rich, dark, it defines red, and it runs slowly down pale skin that's slackened with time, with lack of exertion and a fading appetite. It is all the colour that is lacking in Charles' complexion, and every drop belongs to Erik, because it was his touch that spilt it. The skin yields willingly, grateful for such a practiced touch, there isn't so much as a drag, not a millimetre missed in each cut. They are all perfect, parallel and precise.

Erik catches the hovering blade in its centre, pinched between thumb and middle finger, its width just nicking at the skein of skin between thumb and index finger. Erik catches his breath, in a touch of pain. He smiles, and looks down at Charles, at everything he's created and repaired, at the permissible damage, at the lines that tie them together.

"Just this much, hurts," Erik says, sucking the smallest bead of blood from his hand, tasting the difference in taste, texture, accident, rather than design. "I can't imagine how you feel. I don't remember the times when my body would look like yours does now." Each time he takes Charles like this, and draws him out, tests himself, his own impulses, or, on darker days, his lack of them, he feels as if they are tied ever closer together.

Charles smiles, weakly, feeling himself drained and swimming for coherent thought. He still isn't scared; he hasn't been scared in years. Now, he's only wondering.

 _Erik, my body...won't take much more of this today..._

"But _you_ could? If your body would hold out on you?"

 _Until the end of time, my friend. Until the end of time._

Charles takes a deep breath, and stretches his body out as much as he can, warm, calm, at peace, as he seeps and smiles and rests, leaving it, as ever, to Erik to call the shots.

Erik doesn't know when to stop.

It's not yet.


End file.
